And now for something completely different.

A kitten in the corner.

The sight of her as she passed me took my breath away and almost brought me to tears with appreciation.

It wasn't her makeup, for she wore little. It wasn't her attire, for her spaghetti-strapped top was modest and plain. It was her vibe, her allure, the natural sculpture of her features alone that caught me. Her shortly cropped hair, shocked with streaks of blonde, rested sofly upon her adorable head. The gentle and yet calmy confident statement on her soft, young face. Her modest chest, lithe muscles like tender veal, and the moonlit tone to her soft, alabaster skin. Apart from her lobes widely scooped in plain, heavy-gauge silver, she wore no visible adornments. Somehow, deep within me, I knew she was completely and totally shorn, and pondered whether her mound was enhanced with a christina.

Her half-lidded and slightly detached eyes, the soft pout to her small lips, the almost genteel way she observed her surroundings, her silent gait reminded me of a cat I have known, one belonging to a former lover. No... she resembled this cat exactly, and memory took me. How feline she was, this tender thing who could not have been older than eighteen but whose aura slowly cascaded with a knowing, supine grace. She was a nymph.

Were she Mine, spoke the Taskmaster within me, she would not serve Me victuals, nor pour My wine. she would not be My fucktoy. No. she would be collared and kept to a silver rung in the brickface of My blackroom wall, adoringly captived by a shimmering, fine chain and a little platinum bell.

There, as My pet, she would simply be. A thing of beauty for Me to rest Mine eyes upon as I languished in My favourite chair, enjoyed a glass of 2005 Cotes du Rhone, and rested between caning reps on the plump ass of some wayward, iniquitous, misguided, narcissistic wench who had incurred a just and potent wrath. she would be as a kitten in the corner for My pleasure to see, like a pillar of amethyst by lamplight, a Rodin on a dais.

Sunday comics.

from Titi Fricoteur

If the Math Teacher were a Top.

From: Kara
To: Rogue
Date: 16 Jul 2009 22:51
Subject: RE: Crosswords by the pool


> Fourteen down. The answer is "orgasm." Really. Go ahead and check.
>

Hrmmm ... it's been a LOOOOONG week!!

>
> If you were a Top, I bet you'd try to tie me to a miniature schooldesk and
> make me do quadratic equations in my underwear.

*Stern look down nose* Underwear?!? No, no, no, no! I would like to see your lovely bare ass against the teeny tiny seat ... knowing that when you stand up to answer your questions your backside will slowly peel away from the varnished wood ... ;)

And not the easy quadratics, not the ones with unit coefficients for the squared term, NOOOO ... they would have non-unit coefficients like 5 or 8! And you WOULD NOT be allowed to use the quadratic formula UNLESS you derived it from first principals, and ...

(ugh, I am SUCH a geek!! ;)


> Yeah, yeah, go ahead. Try to deny it. I'm on to you, you wanton hussy.
>

Yeah, wanton GEEKY hussy :)

Quickies.

> Date: Tue, 30 Jun 2009 17:46:24 -0400
> Subject: Re: A Quickie ...
> From: Kara
> To: Rogue
>
>
>
> >
> > I like quickies, too! And then going out on the town still feeling and
> > smelling someone else all over me ;)
>
>
> Fantastic. Then here's my kiss, and yield to me when I spin you
> around, place your hands on the edge of the kitchen table, undo your
> pants, tug them down to your calves, and squat behind you as I swab my
> warm, wet, searching tongue throughout and deeply inside your
> beautiful core until you're drenched and panting. Feel me stand up
> behind you and enjoy the sight of me from over your shoulder as I
> press your chest down to where we share meals. My warm and strong
> hands will feel firm and demanding at your hips just after I've parted
> your bottom and spread your thighs, and just before you hear the
> drawing of a zipper and feel the spongy, warm, urgent tip of my girth
> as it begins to part past your glistening petals. Feel yourself get
> taken by me, the fullness of me slowly sliding into your lovely body
> until your bottom is pressed firmly against my pelvis. I want to fuck
> you, baby. In the kitchen. Hard.
>


Okay,

Now I am WET!!

:)

Three lives conjoined.

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This crazy whirlwind of transition.

I know. I've hardly written lately. It's been very busy around here, and I've been doing a lot of letting go, letting in, and letting be in a short span of time. Intensity.

I'm coming up for air right now to say that everything is fine. Fine and rich and cthonic and gestational and sensual and hard and painful and joyous and healthy and weird. I've been cocooning, it seems, and while I have yet to really see how this chrysalis is going to take shape and form, I sense that I'm on an interesting threshold to interesting vistas and interesting accomplishments. She changes everything She touches, and as someone I once knew and loved once said, "She's got Her hands all over me."

Hello, Kara.
You've been brightening my world deliciously, and I'm enjoying the idea of Possibility. Damn, I like you. Damn, you're fucking cool. Damn, you're fun. Damn, I want to see you open to your fullest potential. Being together may introduce some interesting changes in each of our worlds, but I'm already believing that It's All Good. I wonder if my friends will recognize me. I'll smile as we watch the lake, the fires, the night sky from the lifeguard chair together, making out to the strum of guitars on the beach and the quiet gasps of our quickened breathing.



Goodbye, Shayne.
Those are words I never dreamed that I would ever write, at least not as far as our friendship seems to be concerned. How often had we promised to remain in one another's lives, no matter what happened between us as lovers, no matter whom else we might be with in our futures? I cannot grasp this particular choice that you made, and how it echoes old pains. How could you? You've been my best friend for a long time. Despite my badassedness, this leather self, the man who had first collared you and had been Your Rock, I do miss you awfully and I will miss our friendship dearly. I wish you total success, love, and joy. I love you and I will love you. My door is and will remain open to you: all you need do is say hello. No judgment, no angst. I, for my part, will remain your friend. Namaste.

The summer of love.

What a difference that a season or two will make.

I'm cruising on King Street, watching the fireworks in the night sky far and ahead of me, the sunroof open and my new car pulsing with Rob Hirst's percussion, when it strikes me how great everything is. The last month of two have had its share of very rough challenges from each of the four elements, but God knows that the end of that has come. Feels good.

Working steadily again, rebuilding the goals. It's kept me busy. Plans in the works for future playparty events to attend. Some friends of mine recently were featured in a Fetlife photo shoot. There's an excellent exhibit of ancient erotic sculpture in town that I plan to check out. My bodybuilding is gradually progressing nicely, and I have plans for new and very well-earned ink.

And the dating has been stellar. An English pub with the Spanish Teacher, a dropdead gorgeous puertorriqueña, was fun and relaxing. Pero no había suficiente chispa. Ah bien. (Y la barrera del idioma me habría hecho loco.) Some amusingly social emails with the Socialist. Pleasant chatting with the Yoga Instructor, a lovely longhaired brunette, may yield to coffee after some sun salutations sometime... but, as of the last week or so, I don't seem to be in all that of a rush.

Enter the Math Teacher. An early40s former clown and shorthaired brunette, she has the sassy good looks of a naughty librarian and the bod of an equally sassy and naughty faerie. We've spent quite a bit of time together lately, and it's always been hysterical fun. There may be some solid relationship potential here, guys. She's smart, clever, creative, and tells me that my cock is beautiful.

Yeah. You can't help but like that. Particularly when the woman telling you used to identify herself as lesbian.

Looks like it's going to be a good summer.

The butch dyke who broke ranks.

Pride 2009 is well over, and I'm disappointed to say that it largely passed me by this year. The reason, however, is good: I got my job back recently (yay!), and have been busily catching up on my life responsibilities.

It's a pity: I was considering volunteering at the networking table for at least one group, and missed out on a few playparties. It would have been nice to get Bootblack Boy to do my steeltoes. I have some leathergoods that still need breaking in. The Tomboy asked me out to attend a function, and I had to turn her down.

But there's a park that's not far from the gaybourhood where I found myself recently, and being there reminded me of a chance encounter I had just when my marriage was ending, years ago. I bet my lesbian readers (hey guys!) are going to love this one.

I've remarked before how I'm a Dutch boy, a dyketyke, a dude who really enjoys the company of lesbians. I'm not a man with the Neanderthal opinion that lesbians "lack" or "miss" cock, that dykesex is 'incomplete' sex. I roll my eyes when I see porn films featuring a pair of (perpetually blonde) women having perfectly good fun, only to stop and seem thankful for the entry of the dude arriving "to help them out." I mean, let's get real, for fuck's sake.

So this story, just like the wonderfully empowered woman within it, is going to be a slight departure. Queer friends, kindly bear with me as I commit the heinous crime of telling you about a lesbian who wanted dick.

God knows that the gay community (not unlike others) is riddled with its own factional politics. How many bisexual women have I known who felt, at one time or another, sniped by their lesbian sisters? Despite the diversity of people of so many orientations and interests, often we insist on creating barriers with definitive terms and the judgmental sneers that accompany them. Like the biblical Adam who gave the name to all things, sometimes we become so attached to what we insist on calling a thing that we dismiss any or all subtlety to what else may happily exist in the thing.

Perhaps patriarchy began with labelling, the restriction of nuances, possibilities to ideas, modes of being by the confines of a singular term.

But this is a blog. Written and read, we use words here. And while some terms are volatile, many are insufficient, let me tell you about the dyke who broke ranks.



God knows that for many men, fucking a lesbian is a huge fantasy. If you're among those dudes, let me tell you in no uncertain terms that, almost always, you're dreaming. They're happy, they're great, and they're in no need for your latent assuptions that you have the unique qualities to "convert" them. And yet, at the risk of pissing off my treasured dyke friends, my own experience has also been that I say "almost always" for a reason.

Ten or so years ago, my failing marriage really fucked me up. My sense of trust, and the sexual confidence that comes with it, were shot. Supposedly, my marriage was polyamorous enough that for me to enjoy a casual date wasn't a big thing at all. Little did I know that my wife was doing far more than that without my awareness, but that's another story. A pity for her that I wasn't, and am not, cuckold material.

It was through a phone-based single's dating site that I encountered the Butch Dyke. I made a listing for no-strings fun in a moment of desperation for needed play and relief from the deceptions I was being subjected to at home, as these were still during days when healthier communication in a relationship were skills I was still hammering out. Like always, I made the ad with no expectation for responses, and partly did it just for the fun of doing so, so imagine my surprise when I checked my voicemail box one afternoon and heard her response.

Like me, she was looking for discrete no-strings fun. I was nervous when I heard her voice matter-of-factly telling me that she liked my ad and asked for more ways to contact me. I was nervous when I later spoke to her on the phone. I was nervous when we arranged to meet for a date that weekend.

Apart from two oral-only threesomes with my wife, I hadn't had sex with anyone else but her for a good while, and sex with her left a lot to be desired. Let's say that, as far as my sexual space was concerned, I was in a very different place than where I am now, and where you've enjoyed reading. In a way, my encounter with the Butch Dyke returned me to my own sexual power and presence, a place that I had managed to repress in my attempts to save the marriage.

I didn't know the Toronto queer scene very well then, and didn't realize that the pub we were meeting in was at the heart of the gaybourhood. She was short, muscular, thick, with buzzcut black hair and tattoos. She wore a black wifebeater with jeans and boots, a rainbow of friendship rings around her neck, and she possessed that kind of unbridled confidence that always gets my attention. Over lunch, she discretely shared a little about her girlfriend, how unhappy she was at the time, as I tried to comprehend why she had responded to me in the first place. But, like me, she needed a departure, something to rattle her cage and break the ice she had surrounded herself with because of a relationship that had become dysfunctional. For me, that meant even coming out on this date. For her, it meant breaking the definitive, cardinal rule of dyke culture.

We were walking in the park, making smalltalk. The sun sifted through the trees as we passed the greenhouse, the breeze blowing through the branches. Inwardly, I was struggling with the fact I was even there, yet realizing that since my marriage was already doomed, that I should break free. It was an effort to just talk and try to relax and enjoy the date when Butch Dyke suddenly changed whatever useless topic we were on, dove head-first into what she was there for, stopped, looked up to me, and asked me a question that jolted me from my thoughts and literally made me stop in my tracks.

"So how about I take you home. Would you like a blowjob?"

For a moment, I stood in silence, but my cock responded immediately and was instantly hard in my jeans. I had to laugh out loud.

Is there anything hotter than a woman who boldly makes the first move?

She shared the bottom floor of a house in the gaybourhood with her partner, a one-bedroom that was so tiny that I felt I was in a New York City apartment again. The cramped hallway passed the tight bedroom and led to a kitchenette where the sunlight beamed brightly past the spider plants and iron bars vertically blocking the window. She only had water to offer, which was fine after our lunch and in the warm day. I stood with the window to my back, the fridge to my right, as I looked on the homespun art on the walls and the framed black&white of Butch Dyke's lover.

I smirked between sips. "So what would she think about me being here?"

Butch smirked back. "We're not gonna talk about that." She reached to her waist and pulled the wifebeater up and over her shoulders, revealing a pair of free and buxom tits covered in a sheen of summer perspiration and bird tattoos that reminded me of ones my uncle acquired in Okinawa. "Now let me see your dick."

Setting the glass down near the sink, I smiled as I removed my boots and unbuttoned my jeans. As usual, I was commando. She dropped her pants at the same time I lost mine, and kept her eyes on my crotch with a small smile. After I removed my shirt, she pressed herself close and kissed me fully, and I felt her stubby hand cup and gently squeeze my balls. Her tit was large and heavy in my hand, and I could taste the sweat from above her lip as we made out, all the while her fingers weighing and teasing my testicles. My cock hardened against her forearm. She stroked it slowly, looking down.

"Come on," she said, quietly, breathlessly. I watched her big ass move circularly as she led me to the smallest bedroom I have ever seen.

"Have you done this before?"

"Not since I was in high school. Lay back."

I stretched out on the bed, crossed my hands under my head, opened my thighs, and relaxed.

Her small hands tentatively caressed my legs before I felt her fingers running through the hair on my broad chest. She sighed in approval, and moments later I felt her opened mouth wrapped around my cockhead. She was warm, soft, and wet, and as I felt my glans part past her lips, I reached down to gently hold her near-shaven head. I ran my fingers across the closely cropped hairs as I felt her relax her own body weight below me and slowly begin sucking her first in-the-flesh cock in years. That thought alone made me stone hard, and I smiled as I listened to her adjust her breathing while she felt me thicken in her mouth. She bobbed her head slowly as she tasted me.

"Quite a difference from latex and silicone, mm?" I asked naughtily. Her laughter almost caused her to choke, which made it funnier, which caused her to bite me, which made it even funnier than that.

"Yeah," she replied as she stroked me and smiled, "Warm too. The taste. You're throbbing. I'd forgotten..."

And that's when she started taking me deeper and licking my shaft saucily. I guided her how to stroke the base of my cock with her wet fist as she slurped on the head. I ran my fingers through her hair as she bobbed. She clawed at my thighs as I started to gently thrust upward, and I panted every time I felt my glans get teased by her lips. She licked the tip when I asked her to. She sucked firmly when I asked her to. I held myself back so she could savour all she could of this blasphemous and heretical experience.

Her mouth was glistening with spit when she withdrew and kneeled up, her big tits swaying unashamedly.

"Hey... do you wanna fuck me?"

I did. But I hesitated, unsure. My brain was still fucked up about my marriage dynamics, and I was questioning whether fucking would be acceptable and "right." Butch saw my hesitation and immediately understood, and just as immediately was cool with it.

"That's ok... I wanna see it come anyway," she laughed and bent down to suck me more, this time with her tits quaking between her knees and chest.

She bobbed her head faster now as I thought about how it'd be to fuck her, to fuck my new lesbian friend, my knees behind her and my hands holding her hips while I watched her big round ass under me, her pierced cunt swallowing real, live cock, my real, live cock. She reached under herself and started pumping her fingers deep inside her pussy, fucking herself while she enjoyed my dick in her mouth, and as she did so, she took me even deeper, wetter, and firmer as she started moaning.

Between wanting to fuck her, her mouth, and her jilling, I started to go over the edge. I warned her, and she knelt up again to jack me off with her free hand. She stared at my glistening cock, jacking it as her hand spun circles around her engorged, red clit. My back arched when I burst, and she gasped aloud as she watched my semen soar from me in steady, white ropes across her fist and onto my legs. Suddenly, her eyes tightly closed, she fell in a heap beside me as her hand continued unabated between her thick thighs. She rested her head on my stomach, her still hand holding my drenched and slowly receding dick as she rode her crest with deep and heavy pants.



I wish I could say that we stayed in touch. She had made it clear that what we did would be a one-time thing, and I understand and respect why.

I learned hugely from my fucked-up marriage, which ended not long after this experience. My wife was supremely pissed when I told her about it, which naturally I did because I was playing by our rules. I learned later how she, however, had not been, which helped me feel completely vindicated when I would later reclaim all of the sexuality that I stupidly allowed myself to circumvent for her.

Yeah. That was a long time ago. Times have certainly changed. But you know that, because you have been reading about it all.

In its own way, this blog has been part of that reclamation. Maybe, for me, it's my source of Pride.

Happy Canada Day.

How can you not adore a country where a past Prime Minister declared that "the state has no place in the bedrooms of the nation," where top-free women are legally protected, that led the world on the subject of same-sex marriage, has its own sex-positive political party, and where the highest award in the land is bestowed upon an advocate for women's reproductive health? Have you purchased your condoms from our national safer-sex resource site? Have you enjoyed its national journal on sexuality?

For a native New Yorker, living in Toronto can be like being in a giant Greenwich Village. Years ago, when I first moved here, I was awestruck by the throngs of socially alternative and gorgeous women of this city. Sisters to the glamorous women of Fifth Avenue can be found along Bloor Street between Bay and Yonge. In the summer, the physically fit set can be found running along Harbourfront, and Queen West, the Annex, and Roncesvalles Village are dense with the deliciously bold, Docs-wearing, cycling, punky tombois that so easily make me swoon.

Vancouver awaits me. Someday. The boreal forests to the north await me. Someday. The Atlantic coast and its kitchen parties await me. Someday. But this otherwise jaded Brooklyn boy really enjoys this sane, relaxed, sexy country.